Wait, Pray Preached on May 24th, 2020 For Wollaston Congregational Church Virtual Worship Scripture: Luke 24:44-53 Some time ago you decided to follow this teacher. He was saying wonderful things, he was doing wonderful things. In his presence the hungry are fed, the sick are healed, the down trodden are lifted up. He pays attention to children and women, those who are blind or cannot hear, those who are disfigured by leprosy. He is kind and he is true. When you are near him, you feel more complete, more whole, more at home in that deep down longing kind of way, than you have ever felt before. When you are near him, you know that you can be your truest self, you can live your truest life. You, too, can be kind. You can also feed the hungry and heal the sick. You are no longer afraid to be around the dispossessed and the disfigured. He empowers you to turn toward, instead of turning away. You can do all things when you are near him. You have been following this teacher through villages, and along the rough tracks inbetween. You have become a part of the community who follow him. You have made camp together, broken bread together, talked late into the night together. These people became your family. You knew it was too good to last … and of course it didn’t. Things got weird, frightening. He took the road toward the Holy City on that Passover Festival. You all followed, descending the route into Jerusalem. You were confused when he stopped to weep. What happened next …. the memory is a blur, things happened so fast. He was taken by the authorities and crucified. Cruelly executed. Dead. You knew he was a once in a lifetime, maybe even once in the history of the universe, kind of person. It seemed impossible that his life could be snuffed out like that. And … get this, it’s true! He came back. How, why. You don’t know. But he was really back, blessing you all with peace, eating a piece of fish. Really back. He was with you all for a while. Until today … yes, it’s become clear. His time back with you all was just a blip, a brief moment of reassurance. He takes you all out to a hill. Not just any hill, of course. Everything he does, everything he says has a purpose. It’s the hill where that Passover week first began, when you all paraded down into the humming, buzzing city. That seems so long ago now, but really it’s just a few weeks. It was a different time, a more innocent time. The time before he gave you the supper ritual that will become so important to your community. A freer time when you ate and drank together, embraced and laughed together without a thought. Just over these past weeks, you have begun to feel so much older. Less innocent, less ignorant. The curtain has been pulled back. The truth of the world and it’s brokenness has been revealed. You carry yourself with more gravity. Smiles come less easily. Tears catch you unawares. This is going to be a moment, you know it. Is this the time the religious people are always talking about, especially those fringe folks who make their camp out in the wilderness? Is this the time when the kingdom of Israel will be restored to her rightful place? Is this the dawn of the golden age? No, he replies, it’s not for you to know that time. God’s timeline is beyond your comprehension. No, now is the time for you all to begin the task of becoming my church … you are going to be my body on Earth … not only in Judea, but around the whole world. You are to birth this global movement, there is no going back. There is no return to what was before. So, now go to the city. Wait and pray for further instruction, for God’s powerful Spirit to come upon you. You can’t take it in. You don’t get his meaning. It’s going to take time to process all this. And then … this part you still can’t quite get your head around … He starts to go up. Yes, up. Off the ground. There are clouds in the sky that are weirdly low, given that’s it’s such a pleasant day. He is going up into the clouds. You stand, unable to say anything, just staring. Your gaze follows him up, until all you can see are the soles of his feet. You and all the disciples are frozen, you cannot move. You just gaze up at the spot where you last saw those feet. Your heart plunges in your chest. A cry, a moan rises in your throat. What are we going to do? He is gone. They are gone. It is gone. And so there is nothing else to do but wait. So much is lost, you have to stop now and take it in. You and your fellow disciples, your beautiful communal group, have lost the one who gave you identity. This is where you stand with the other disciples. -------------------- And this where we all stand, in our nation and in our world today. Many are gone. More will be gone. We are changed by the loss, even if we did not know them. We are changed by the collective trauma of this new way of dying, surrounded by strangers in masks and protective gear. It will take us a long time to process. We know how to grieve those who are lost to war. We will observe that special holiday tomorrow: Memorial Day. And we know how to grieve those who are lost to terrorism, foreign or domestic. Community leaders, religious leaders, political leaders speak out, they offer words of comfort and communal mourning. This year we will need to learn to do something new: to grieve those who died in a pandemic. At this time almost 100,000 individuals have lost their lives in America: parents, sons, daughters, spouses, siblings, grandparents, great grandparents, aunts and uncles. On this weekend, in particular, we remember that this pandemic has taken many veterans. They returned from their wars years ago. Now they die at home or in long term care facilities. Professor and author, Micki McElya, writes “Americans have a common set of expectations and rituals for responding to national losses, whether they’re from war, terrorism, school shootings, natural disasters or assassinations. We lower flags to half-staff. We hold candlelight vigils. We leave flowers, stuffed animals and messages of sympathy at sites that have witnessed horrors. We pause for moments of silence. We speak the names of the dead. We observe funereal pageantry from sidewalks, on television and online. We build memorials.” But sadly we do not know how to grieve those who die in pandemics. Add to this lack of experience the fact that we cannot come together in person. McElya goes on “The pandemic dead have received almost [no communal grieving] and the omission is significant — even if the dying is still just beginning. Shared grief brings people together like little else. “ [1] We cannot move from this spot, gazing at what we do not know, until we can grieve and mourn. This is our community and our world right now. ------------------------------- And then there is our church … our community of faith. The first disciples gathered on the mountain, looking up, are no longer disciples of a living, present teacher. Their identity is changing. Although they don’t yet know it, the newborn church is emerging in them. We are already a church, but how is our identity changing and how do we remain true to our calling to worship, prayer, service and gathering? Would we truly be Wollaston Congregational Church if we were ushered in and out of worship, social distanced and wearing masks, without a time to gather and find out how everyone is doing? Would we truly be Wollaston Congregational, if people over 65 and with preexisting health conditions had to stay away? Would we truly be Wollaston Congregational if we could not eat and drink together, embrace and laugh, or sing together? Would we truly be Wollaston Congregational if we had to limit the ways we could invite groups into our building? As onlookers observed the sad disciples returning to Jerusalem, they may have said, “that Jesus movement is over.” As onlookers see our building, still closed today, they may say “the church is shutdown.” They are both wrong. A small group of us gathered on Wednesday evening, since last Sunday’s worship service never happened due to Zoom problems. Worship in the evening time always feels a little more tender to me, and we closed our service listening to and watching the “UK Blessing.” This video has spoken to many souls around the world. It was released on May 3rd and had gone viral by the next day. The video was created by an amazingly diverse collection of singers and choirs from Christian denominations in the UK. They sing a stirring contemporary arrangement of the blessing from the biblical book of Numbers, “May the Lord Bless You and Keep You.” The video ends with the message: “Our buildings may be closed but our church is still alive.” [2] In an interview, the worship leader Tim Hughes, who organized the video recording, shared the ways church is still alive during the UK coronavirus lockdown. He explained that the churches who participated in the recording had served a total of 400,000 meals to the hungry. And that online ministries are reaching many hungry souls. [3] Even though we are not a church of 100’s or 1,000s here in the Wollaston Congregational community, we have also fed the hungry. Several times over the past weeks we have gathered donations and put together bagged lunches for guests of Father Bill’s shelter. Each time, three or four people have made sandwiches wearing masks and observing physical distancing. We’ll be doing another 50 lunches this week. I have heard the expression, “the church is not closed. The church has been deployed…” We don’t yet know what that deployment looks like for us. For now there may be nothing to do but wait, to process what has happened, to allow ourselves to grieve. And so we wait. May all God’s people say … Amen [1] https://www.washingtonpost.com/outlook/national-mourning-coronavirus/2020/05/15/b47fc670-9577-11ea-82b4-c8db161ff6e5_story.html [2] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PUtll3mNj5U&feature=share&fbclid=IwAR0A2WlsQSE_7Aw2WzjZXVkov6UyEibNaC-AC3RgnWXipupFctqPvl9iSf8 [3] https://premierchristian.news/en/news/article/prime-minister-gives-tim-hughes-award-and-labels-uk-blessing-video-a-sensational-singing-masterpiece?fbclid=IwAR2YJVcpeYRHa8aGVNefAIrOmFdiP8jKnPtONgmWuIbBHA-ELw8REFO9bhw#.Xr2mtLIEPu4.facebook
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Overcoming Denial: the Spirit of Truth Preached on May 17th, 2020 For Wollaston Congregational Church Virtual Worship Scripture: John 14:15-21 Today we continued to read from the farewell discourse in the gospel of John. Jesus speaks to anxious disciples. Although they have tried to deny it, they know that Jesus will soon be taken away to die. Jesus also speaks to anxious readers of John’s gospel who live after the time of Christ, toward the end of the first century. These followers are dealing the Roman Empire’s persecution of those who remain faithful to Jesus, the one who was crucified for speaking the truth. Anxious disciples and persecuted followers need to hear Jesus’ words of truth and comfort. And so, Jesus reminds the disciples and the readers ourselves included, that when he has gone from them physically, he will still be with them in the form of another advocate and comforter … the Spirit of truth. Jesus tells the disciples, “You know her” … the Spirit is familiar to them, they will recognize her. They will recognize Jesus in her. There is a strong sense of identification in what Jesus is saying. The Spirit is identified with the Truth, Jesus is identified with the Truth. Jesus, the Spirit and the Abba are identified with one another. All are One. In his teachings, Jesus talked a lot about the truth. And on one occasion he didn’t even have to say anything, he simply had to be. When Jesus was interrogated by Pilate, the Roman Governor, before he was condemned to die, Pilate posed the question “What is the truth?” Jesus did not reply, but simply stood there in silence. Jesus had already told the disciples “I am the truth.” Jesus is seen to be the truth of God, in his healing and teaching ministries, his recognition of those who were ignored. He is seen to be the truth by putting the most vulnerable at the center … the sick, the elderly, children, and the poor. He is seen to be the truth in his silent witness to Pilate and the others who condemn him. There were many opportunities for Jesus to talk his way out of crucifixion. There were opportunities to cease speaking the truth in the temple, to cease lifting up the hopes of the poor and oppressed, to refrain from the message that God desired a better life for them. But Jesus refused to do it. Like many the prophets who went before him, Jesus was executed for speaking the truth. We are generally aware of what is the truth. If we knowingly lie, we are painfully aware of it. Deliberate lying is problematic and usually unethical, of course. Still, perhaps a more common form of untruth is self-deceit. We practice self-deceit in a number of ways and for a number of reasons. In these times, I am noticing my own inclination to self-deceit in the form of over-optimism and denial. I’d prefer to pretend that things will soon return to ‘normal.’ If I hope for a regular summer, visiting family and friends, eating and playing together, perhaps it will happen. Optimism in itself can be helpful at times. The expression “hope or pray for the best, and prepare for the worst” attempts a balance between optimism and pessimism. And yet optimism can mask denial, and denial can lead to harm. In these times denial and over-optimism may result in very serious harm. If we are over-optimistic about the trajectory of COVID-19 and decide to return to in-person worship prematurely, we could cause serious harm to our members and also our community. This sobering fact must inform our decisions in the coming weeks and months. A more troubling aspect of denial and over-optimism is the deliberate sense of denial we are seeing in many of our leaders. This denial takes the shape of a lack of communal mourning, in the face of 85 thousand deaths. It takes the shape of ignoring the warnings of health and scientific experts about the dangers of prematurely “reopening the economy.” It takes the shape of “magical thinking” that a COVID-19 cure or vaccine will suddenly appear well before the known timeline for such developments. One form of truth telling our leaders could easily begin to practice is the habit of saying “I don’t know” in reply to questions outside their fields of expertise. They could begin to defer to the experts and to work collaboratively. Being truthful means being humble. And humility is sadly lacking in many leaders in these times. Some of these problems are outside our control, of course. Still, we can contribute to the discourse in our communities and our state, by adopting a practice of truthfulness with ourselves and others. Who will we talk with in the coming weeks? Will we participate in a virtual town meeting? Will we demonstrate our commitment to physical distancing and protecting our vulnerable neighbors when we go out and about? Will we, as a church, remain mindful of the number of vulnerable ones in our congregation, as we discuss a timeline toward coming back together for in-person worship? In our personal and corporate times of reflection and worship: How might we invite the Spirit, in the form of the truth, to abide with us and among us? Where will we find the strength and the courage to face the truth without denial? How will we mourn in truth for all who have died, while we remain hopeful for the future? Last week Marian sent me a picture of the Medieval mystic, Julian of Norwich, self-isolating, as she did, with her cat! Although she lived in seclusion in a cell in the church, Julian had people come by, appropriately distanced, for prayers of healing. She is known as the first woman to have written a book in the English language, in which she tells of visions given to her by God in her time of seclusion. Author, scholar, and Episcopal priest Mary Earle writes: “Norwich’s population was around 25,000 in 1330, until it was struck viciously by the plague known as the Black Death. At its peak in the late 1340s in England, [the plague] killed approximately [75%] of the population of Norwich.” Julian was a young girl at this time. She surely must have been “affected in untold ways by this devastation. [Then] the plague returned, [when] she was about nineteen.” [1] It seems that many people have been finding some comfort in Julian’s writings in current times. Author Veronica Mary Rolf answers the question “Why Julian now?” She says, “in our age of uncertainty, inconceivable suffering, and seemingly perpetual violence and war … Julian shows us the way toward contemplative peace. “In a world of deadly diseases and ecological disasters, Julian teaches us how to endure pain in patience and trust that Christ is working to transform every cross into resurrected glory. “… Julian’s voice speaks to us about love. She communicates personally, as if she were very much with us here and now. Even more than theological explanations, we all hunger for love. Our hearts yearn for someone we can trust absolutely—divine love that can never fail. Julian reveals this love because … she experienced it firsthand … “Again, and again, Julian reassures each one of us that we are loved by God, unconditionally. In her writings, we hear Christ telling us, just as he told Julian, ‘I love you and you love me, and our love shall never be separated in two.’” [2] Julian did not deny of the suffering of her time. And yet she was able to trust her fears and worries to God. Her optimism came from a deep appreciation of God’s profound love for her and for all creation. Julian’s most famous saying is still often repeated in these times: All will be well and all will be well and every kind of thing shall be well. In these times of fear and not knowing what is ahead, I have noticed that I’m inclined to spend a lot of time online. Besides video conferencing for work and socialization, I read many articles about the pandemic. Each day I check the statistics on infections, hospitalizations and deaths, in Massachusetts. They come out at 4 pm. Over the past few weeks, I have discovered that I need to acknowledge today’s reality to the best of my ability. I need to study the risks of reopening in-person worship and how the virus spreads from person to person and in communities. I need to be aware of what the numbers mean for our state and our city. When the numbers have been published and I have read them, I have confronted the reality. Then I need a time to let it all go. And so I have added a new time of quiet at the end of my afternoon: with a yoga session, a time of prayer, or simply sitting in quiet and enjoying the view from my window. Through the breathing, moving, and sitting in the quiet I begin to slow down my recurring thoughts. Then I find that I am sitting with God, the Sprit of Truth. I hope that you have a practice like this too, or you can begin one. So that we can all turn our hearts toward the eternal Truth that: All will be well, and will be well, and every kind of thing shall be well. May it be so. Amen [1] Mary C. Earle, Julian of Norwich: Selections from Revelations of Divine Love—Annotated & Explained (SkyLight Paths: 2013), xx—xxi. [2] Julian of Norwich, The Fourteenth Revelation, ch. 58 (Long Text). Adapted from Veronica Mary Rolf, An Explorer’s Guide to Julian of Norwich, (IVP Academic: 2018), 18-21. Finding the Way Through Preached on Sunday May 10th, 2020 For Wollaston Congregational Church UCC Virtual Worship Service Scripture: John 14:1-14 Friends, today my heart is troubled. My heart is troubled because ... - Walmart has closed in Quincy due to cluster of infections - Gun stores have reopened in Massachusetts, because it is deemed essential for us to be armed in a time when we all need more love than ever - And petty fights are breaking out over the need to distance physically and wear face coverings or masks. My heart is troubled by the distressing lack of discipline and an excess of entitlement among sections of the population. And my heart is troubled by the tragic disparity in infection rates between rich and poor, white and non-white, those who are deemed essential workers and those who are able to stay at home. My heart is troubled because I believe that we will need to reopen many businesses and activities without any control over infection rates. The consequence will be that many of us – our elderly and those with pre-existing health conditions – will be confined and isolated at home for much longer than we hoped. My heart is troubled because I cannot envision us gathering physically for worship for quite sometime. My heart is troubled because I read this week that singing and public performances will be impossible for many months to come, as singing transmits the virus much further than talking. My heart is troubled because, even though we live in a “reasonable” State, viruses cross borders. My heart is troubled for loved ones in other states and overseas, and the fear I will not be able to see them anytime soon. My heart is troubled because I have seen many colleagues and friends hitting a wall this week. My heart is troubled on this day, when we read Jesus’ words spoken to the disciples “Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me.” My heart is troubled because of living in these times, of course. We are living in in-between times, liminal times. The time between one thing and another. We live in the liminal time between pre-corona virus and post-corona virus. We remember well the time when coronavirus was not a problem. And, we can hope for a time when the virus will no longer be a concern. But for now we cannot imagine how we will get there. We cannot see the way forward. We do not know how long this liminal time will go on. The most troubling thing about liminal times, is the not knowing … not knowing what is coming next. The disciples are on the cusp of liminal times, too, as Jesus speaks to them during his farewell discourse in the Gospel of John. They are about to lose Jesus, he will be taken away and crucified the next day. Their three-year sojourn with him is coming to an end. They will need to learn “the way” of Jesus without his physical presence and his daily teaching. Jesus tells them not to let their hearts be troubled. He tells them that in his Abba’s house there are many rooms and that he is going to prepare a place for them. The disciples cannot help their troubled hearts, because they do not understand Jesus. They fear that they do not know the way through their heartache. For Jesus the way is death and resurrection. And for the disciples, who will become the church, perhaps their way is better understood as a birth. After all, Jesus has already taught them that a person cannot enter the kingdom of God unless they are born again. Both death and birth are journeys from one place to another. In that process we enter into a liminal time. But we do not have to go alone. For persons in nursing homes, hospice or the hospital, their companion from life through death and to eternal life is often a chaplain. In these liminal times, when we have been lifting up the work of healthcare providers, we may also think about chaplains. In fact chaplains have been in the news recently, usually they are not paid much attention. Now that family members are unable to be with their loved ones in the hospital, chaplains are being called upon to provide a vital link. They facilitate Facetime between families and loved ones, even when the patient is unconscious and on a ventilator. And they offer extra comfort to the sick and the dying who are separated from their families. They are heartbroken that this has to be done from a distance. Chaplains are also there for heartbroken healthcare workers, praying with them and listening to their stories. These care providers are Rabbis, Imams, Priests, Ministers and specialized chaplains. WBUR aired an interview with some Boston chaplains, including my neighbor Katie Rimer, who is the director of Spiritual Care at Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center. The chaplains said that they cannot hold hands or make close eye contact with their patients. These are things they would normally do with the dying. But they are doing their best to be present physically and virtually. They pray on the other side of the glass from patients, wondering if it is helpful at all. They pray in the morgue over bodies. They said they pray that their colleagues will be able to heal from the trauma of all that they have witnessed in these times. Katie tells the story of praying a Jewish blessing for healing for man on a respirator with her hand on glass outside his room. She says that the hospital staff ask for her to pray with them all the time, in the hallways and break rooms. [1] Chaplains show the way, in liminal places like nursing homes and critical care wards. They show the way to share love for families and loved ones of patients. They show the way through this crisis to nurses and other healthcare workers. Of course, this is not a sure and certain way even for chaplains. Many are exhausted by the grief and unknowing. It is the way of prayer in the darkest hours. It is a ministry of presence, when even physical presence is not possible. They lead and guide the other administers of care, even while they do not know the way themselves. We, church, are struggling to know the way at this time. Our hearts are troubled in these time, this liminal place, as we try to see the way forward. We don’t know what worship will look like when we eventually come back together. Will we be distanced from one another? Will we wear masks? How might we celebrate communion? Just this week I learned that it will be unsafe for choirs and others to sing and perform together, so long as infection is a concern. And it is likely that it will be unsafe for us to share coffee hour or meals together. When I hear members of the congregation say they do not like Zoom and they will wait until we can be together in the sanctuary I am concerned. They may grow tired of waiting. They are missing the community of these gatherings in the meantime. Of course, I am also especially concerned for those who are unable to access Zoom and other virtual ways of gathering. The way ahead, for ourselves, for our church for our world, into the post-coronavirus world is not clear. Just as the way ahead, for the disciples, into a world in which Jesus would be present in the church was not clear. Jesus doesn’t give the disciples a roadmap. In the passage we read today, he only tells the disciples that he is the way. He is the way that their troubled and fractured little group will become Christ’s body on earth. Jesus gives them a relationship with himself and with Abba, our parent God. When I meet with my spiritual director, Susie, I often talk about discerning the way ahead for my life and for the life of our church. Susie once shared with me an image of discerning the way ahead. She says that often when we pray to God to show us the way, we hope to see a red carpet leading us clearly to our future. Instead, God provides us with just enough light to take the next step on a darkened path, not knowing where it might lead. We are to trust in the relationship Jesus offers, and the little pool of light we have for our next best step. We may rest assured that we are ultimately being led to the place Jesus is preparing for us. Our next best steps will surely lead us into the post-coronavirus world. One moment of inspiration came this week when I came across a vision of that world, entitled “Imagine a Pandemic of Love.” It is a poem, written on a colorful cartoon image of Mother Earth. It says: “There is still time to build a world of peace Of easy words and bright rooms Where everywhere we go we will be at home.” So, my friends, may our troubled hearts be eased by the thought that Jesus shows us the way ahead. And then may we take our next best step toward that world. May all God’s people say, Amen [1] https://www.wbur.org/commonhealth/2020/05/04/spiritual-care-at-a-distance-masked-chaplains-during-covid-19 The Good Shepherd in a Time of Coronavirus Preached on May 5th, 2020 For Wollaston Congregational Church Virtual Worship Service Scripture: John 10:1-10, Psalm 23 It would be stretching the truth to say that I grew up around sheep. I lived close to the city in a not so rural area. But I did see sheep quite often, when my family took trips out to the North Yorkshire moors, or to the East coast. We’d see them in the fields, in early spring, while the weather was still frigid. They’d be bundled in their winter coats, mothers each with one or two little lambs in tow. We’ve driven through the moors, and have them wander onto the road, so that we had to slow way down. These sheep are in the pasture: roaming and yet close enough to their flock. When the shepherd comes to round them up they will hear and come right along. Our children did not see sheep quite so often, growing up in New England. A few years ago, when we were back in the UK on a visit, we took a walk in the countryside and saw the sheep grazing the hills. One of kids asked about how the sheep owners ever gathered them back again, having let them loose on the hillside. The timing was perfect, as a shepherd and his dog strolled out ahead of us. With a few quick whistles, and minimal verbal instruction, the dog rounded up the little flock and brought them back down the hill to meet the shepherd. And then they headed down to the farm. The whole exercise seemed to take just a few minutes. Sheep herd naturally, they know safety in numbers. And still, they need to be protected from predators and from theft. In our gospel passage today, Jesus uses imagery that would be familiar to every child in the countryside of his time. Jesus tells his listeners that he is the good shepherd. He is the one to care for and protect the sheep. He ensures that they remain in the sheepfold. He recognizes enemies and keeps them out. The sheep, quite naturally, know his voice. They know that when they are with him they are safe. He will bring them into the fold for the night, where they will huddle close keeping one another warm. He will keep the predators and the thieves away. He’ll rub their heads with oil to keep the fleas off. And when it is safe to do so, he’ll lead them out again, to a verdant green pasture, to abundant life. This bucolic imagery sounds beautiful to our 21st century ears. We generally find it is comforting. Perhaps in our daily prayers and meditations we will slowly read this passage from John’s gospel and the 23rd psalm, imagining Jesus looking out for us and protecting us from all ills. It’s a lovely thought, but it may seem like a fanciful distraction in these times. After all, we have not really been protected from all ills, have we? Jesus the good shepherd has not protected us and our community from the ravages of the coronavirus. And we have not been immune to the consequences of the response: loss of employment and income, shortages in the grocery stores and other economic woes. For this passage to speak us today, we will need to go deeper, and ask questions such as: - What does safety for a church mean, when we cannot herd together physically? - Who and what are we to be protected from, in the imaginary sheepfold, in these times? - And what does being led out to pasture and to abundant life look like, in these days? We remember that sheep are herding animals. They do not travel alone. Remember the parable about the one lost sheep and the good shepherd who leaves the other 99 to find it? The lost sheep is the one in trouble. The other 99 are safe in their herd. Going it alone is dangerous for sheep. And so, we are … “like sheep” as in the verse from the prophet Isaiah, that is sung over and over, in performances of Handel’s Messiah. We, the people of the church, need to herd together. We find our safety in the fold, shepherded by Jesus, who protects us from hustlers and thieves. At the moment, we are remaining physically distant, for safety and protection, during the COVID-19 pandemic. We particularly want to protect our older and more vulnerable members. We also want to do our part to limit the spread of the virus in the community. This is how we show love for one another and for our neighbors, in these strange times: by staying home, and wearing masks and distancing when we do go out. We keep our church building safe, for future visitors, by keeping the virus out during in this time of high infection rates. Some churches have continued to gather physically for worship during this crisis. Ironically, their services often include the laying on of hands for healing. It’s so sad that the pastors of these churches do not see the need to protect their vulnerable members. They are setting a harmful example for their congregants and their communities. There are other safety concerns besides the possibility of infection for our churches, too. Perhaps you have heard about Zoom-bombers. These are people who get hold of Zoom meeting information and take over the meetings, sharing hateful material. A few weeks ago a church known for their open and affirming stance for the LGBTQ+ community was bombed with hateful homophobic slurs. This kind of attack can cause literal harm to those who have been traumatized by hate speech in the past. I’ve also heard of Alcoholics Anonymous meetings being bombed by people taunting the members to go out and drink. And, I’ve heard of churches with racially diverse congregations having their online services bombed with race-hating imagery. Even while we are physically safe in our homes, these kinds of attacks can be spiritually and psychologically damaging. That is why we do not share the Zoom link or meeting ids for our services publically. Church members in our fold are spiritually and psychologically safe when we have a place to share our stories and our concerns. It takes vulnerability to speak out loud the prayers we need for ourselves and our loved ones. We need a place of safety, to tell one another what is really going on in our lives. We need to know that we will not be laughed at or put down. We need to know that our stories will not become the subject of gossip. While we remain in the fold, our work is to praise God with glad and generous hearts. It is to share with one another, to ease one another’s burdens. This has been happening so well, with you all calling each other on the phone, checking in and finding out if there is anything anyone needs. Even during virtual worship we can emulate the church in the book of Acts, by breaking bread and eating together. Our hearts are one, when are moved together by the music, or a particular video or our time of prayer. And even while we are on lockdown, we can love our neighbors, individually and as a community. Last Sunday the stewards planned to buy supplies over the next week or so, so that we can provide Father Bill’s shelter with more bagged lunches. Individually, we can shop for those who cannot go out and we can donate to the organizations who are relieving suffering. But of course, our gospel passage reminds us that the sheep do not remain in the sheepfold for all time. Jesus says that the shepherd leads the sheep out to pasture. He leads them to abundant life. We may draw on Psalm 23, as we acknowledge that the journey to the pasture and to abundant life is not straightforward. The route takes us through the darkest valley, the valley of the shadow of death. I believe we are passing through that fearful place right now. This is probably one of the darkest valleys we have ever known. Some days the valley seems so dark, we can barely see the light at the end. And yet, one thing that the gospel and the psalm both affirm is that our good shepherd, the one we know in Jesus, goes with us. He leads us through that valley and out the other side into abundant life. And so, we might wonder what that abundant life looks like, given this crisis? Some people are speculating over what the church will be like in the future. Like many churches, we have been led out of our building. We have begun to expand our reach through online and electronic worship. Perhaps this is also the work of the shepherd? As we pass together through the darkest of valleys, I cannot imagine the self-hatred that causes someone to Zoom bomb church services and AA meetings with harmful messages. And I’m mystified by those who lack trust in the community, and value their personal liberty over physically distancing to protect the vulnerable. That kind of life must be so limited, fearful, and isolated. The fear, hatred and isolation is the evil that is to be rejected, not the people who are stuck in that life. The abundant life to which the shepherd Jesus leads us is counter to all these things. It is the place where we can love and praise God with glad and generous hearts. It is a place where we no longer need to fear. It is a place of belonging, for members of the flock whose shepherd God guides and protects them from all evil. May we all remain connected to the flock, protected by the shepherd, so that we may be led our to that abundant life. May all God’s people say, Amen. |
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April 2022
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